LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

RECEIVED   BY  EXCHANGE 
Class     _J  5  i  >t 


Address  and  Poem 


READ  AT 


Bowdoin   College 


JUNE   26,    1907 


IN   COMMEMORATION    OF  THE 
CENTENARY  OF  THE  BIRTH  OF 


Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 


OF  THE  CLASS  OF  1825 


Address  and  Poem 


READ  AT 


Bowdoin   College 


JUNE   26,    1907 


IN   COMMEMORATION    OF   THE 
CENTENARY  OF  THE  BIRTH  OF 


Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 


OF  THE  CLASS  OF  1825 


OFTHE 

UNIVERSITY] 


BRUNSWICK,  MAINE 

PUBLISHED  BY  THE  COLLEGE 

1907 


ADDRESS 

BY 

PROFESSOR  HENRY  LELAND  CHAPMAN,  D.D., 
CLASS  OF  1866 


209392 


ADDRESS 


TO  speak  of  Longfellow  in  this  place,  and  to  this 
audience,  is  a  privilege,  —  a  privilege  none  the 
less  though  speech  may  not  rise  to  the  height  of  the 
subject  and  the  occasion.  The  place  is  hallowed  by 
the  memory  of  his  own  presence  and  voice,  when  he 
was  already  crowned  with  the  beauty  of  age,  and 
with  the  honor  of  the  world.  The  audience  is  com 
posed,  in  part  at  least,  of  those  whose  feeling  of 
reverence  for  the  poet  is  made  tender,  and  in  some 
measure  personal,  by  the  strong  and  subtle  tie  which 
binds  together  the  sons  of  a  common  Alma  Mater. 
It  is  a  brother-alumnus  whose  character  and  work 
we  commemorate,  now  when  a  hundred  years  have 
passed  since  his  life  began,  and  twenty-five  years 
since  it  ended. 

It  is  true,  of  course,  that,  like  all  poets,  he  belongs 
to  everyone  that  has  found  pleasure,  or  comfort,  or 
inspiration  in  his  verse  ;  and  his  fame  is  one  of  the 
cherished  treasures  of  the  land.  Yet  it  seems  to  be 
our  privilege,  as  it  certainly  is  our  pride,  to  feel  that, 
in  some  sense,  he  belongs  peculiarly  to  us.  He  was 
a  student,  a  graduate,  and  a  professor  of  Bowdoin, 
and  through  all  the  years  that  followed  his  residence 
here,  he  cherished  and  expressed  for  the  college  a 
deep  and  filial  regard.  He  was  still  an  undergrad 
uate  when  the  "phantom  of  fame"  rose  upon  his 


6  LONGFELLOW'S  CENTENARY 

vision,  and  he  wrote  to  his  father,  —  "I  most  eagerly 
aspire  after  eminence  in  literature.  My  whole  soul 
burns  most  ardently  for  it ;  and  every  earthly  thought 
centres  in  it." 

As  he  has,  himself,  recorded,  it  was  in  No.  27, 
Winthrop  Hall,  the  eastern  windows  of  which  looked 
out  upon  the  grove  of  fragrant  and  murmuring  pines, 
that  he  wrote  the  poems  which,  appearing  in  the 
United  States  Literary  Gazette,  attracted  not  a 
little  attention,  and  in  many  minds  associated  the 
initials,  "H.  W.  L.,"  with  the  most  hopeful  verse 
produced  at  that  time,  in  New  England. 

It  was  here  that  he  returned,  after  three  rapturous 
and  fruitful  years  in  the  Old  World,  to  begin  his  work 
as  a  teacher  amid  the  scenes  which  had  witnessed 
his  diligence  as  a  student.  On  the  fiftieth  anniver 
sary  of  his  graduation,  he  did  in  this  place  what  he 
could  scarcely  be  persuaded  to  do  elsewhere,  —  he 
read  a  poem  to  a  public  audience  ;  in  which,  in  his 
inimitably  modest  way,  he  laid  a  tribute,  wrought 
equally  of  art  and  of  affection,  at  the  proud  feet  of 
his  Alma  Mater. 

That  was  a  memorable  scene,  as  some  who  are 
present  to-day  will  recall.  The  floor  and  galleries, 
the  pews,  the  aisles,  and  every  "  coigne  of  vantage" 
in  this  historic  church,  were  crowded  with  people 
who  held  their  breaths  to  catch  the  spoken  music  of 
his  salutation  :  — 

"  O  ye  familiar  scenes,  — ye  groves  of  pine, 
That  once  were  mine,  and  are  no  longer  mine,  — 
Thou  river  widening  thro'  the  meadows  green 


ADDRESS  7 

To  the  vast  sea,  so  near  and  yet  unseen,  — 
Ye  halls,  in  whose  seclusion  and  repose 
Phantoms  of  fame,  like  exhalations,  rose 
And  vanished,  —  we  who  are  about  to  die 
Salute  you  !  " 

Do  you  suppose  the  college  will  ever  forget  that 
salutation,  or  cease  to  claim  the  poet  as  her  own?  — 
Not  her  own  in  any  jealous  or  exclusive  sense,  but 
in  the  proud  and  grateful  sense  in  which  a  mother 
claims  as  her  own  the  son  whose  achievements  in  the 
world  of  men  reflect  glory  upon  the  household  from 
which  he  went,  and  to  which  his  feet  sometimes,  and 
his  affections  always,  return. 

It  was  a  characteristic  and  beautiful  trait  of  Long 
fellow  that  he  cherished  an  abiding  interest  in  the 
ancestral  line  which  led  him  back  to  the  cabin  of  the 
Mayflower,  in  the  city  of  his  birth  and  happy  boy 
hood,  and  in  the  college  where  he  passed  the  years 
of  his  youth  and  early  manhood ;  and  he  has  written 
of  them  all  in  words  that  never  lose  their  grace  and 
beauty,  more  than  does  the  familiar  lapping  of  the 
wave  upon  the  beach,  or  the  ever-recurring  flush  of 
the  sunset  cloud. 

Many  who  have  never  visited  his  boyhood  home, 
or  seen  the  "  shadowy  lines  of  its  trees,"  the  "  fort 
upon  the  hill,"  and  the  ''breezy  dome"  of  Deering's 
woods,  yet  hear  in  the  exquisite  melody  of  My  Lost 
Youth  —  that  song  of  early  memories  —  the  elemental 
chant  of  the  human  heart,  singing  to  itself  in  quiet 
monotone  of  the  scenes  and  associations  which  are 
not  so  much  remembered,  as  wrought  into  the 


8  LONGFELLOW'S    CENTENARY 

continuous  fabric  of  a  life  of  which  the  conventional 
distinctions  of  yesterday,  to-day,  and  to-morrow,  are 
phases  and  not  fragments.  It  is  to  the  credit  of  the 
critics,  who  have  not  failed  to  speak  in  the  wise  terms 
of  criticism,  or  in  the  flippant  terms  of  disparage 
ment,  of  much  that  Longfellow  has  written,  —  it  is 
to  their  credit  that  they  have  passed  by  this  lyric, 
captivated,  or  puzzled,  perhaps  by  the  charm  which 
defies  analysis,  and  compels  admiration.  Striking 
as  it  is  in  form,  and  simple  in  substance,  no  parodist 
has  laid  frivolous  or  profane  hands  upon  it.  Nature 
and  art  are  so  wedded  in  it  that  the  twain  have  indeed 
become  one ;  and  it  will  go  on  singing  to  generation 
after  generation  a  song  that  will  touch  the  hearts  of 
men  and  women  everywhere,  like 

"  The  song  that  found  a  path 

Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,  when,  sick  for  home, 
She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn." 

This  poem  of  boyhood  memories  was  written  when 
Mr.  Longfellow  was  nearing  his  fiftieth  year,  after 
his  retirement  from  the  Cambridge  professorship, 
and  when  his  fame  had  long  since  passed  beyond  the 
region  not  only  of  his  early  home,  but  of  his  native 
land.  For  his  fame  could  not  linger,  any  more  than 
could  his  feet,  in  the  scenes  where  it  was  first  nur 
tured.  It  went  forth  over  the  earth,  crossing  moun 
tains  and  seas,  overleaping  the  barriers  of  race  and 
tongue,  and  finding  a  resting-place  and  home  in 
every  land.  Nothing,  indeed,  is  more  significant 
in  Longfellow's  verse,  than  the  ease  and  power  with 


ADDRESS  9 

which  it  has  spoken  to  the  people  of  every  language, 
and  of  every  condition  in  life. 

Dr.  Edwin  A.  Grosvenor,  who  was  for  some  years 
connected  with  the  American  legation  at  Constanti 
nople,  tells  of  an  eminent  Turkish  Pasha,  who  was, 
in  some  respects,  he  says,  the  most  remarkable 
statesman  among  the  Ottomans  of  the  nineteenth 
century.  He  was  a  man  of  inflexible  honesty,  and 
naturally  incurred  the  hostility  of  the  privileged 
classes.  Nevertheless  he  served  with  distinction  as 
Ottoman  ambassador  to  Persia,  to  France,  and  to 
Russia,  and  was  twice  honored  with  the  dignity  of 
Grand  Vizier. 

Better  than  any  residence  of  state,  says  Dr. 
Grosvenor,  he  loved  the  gray  stone  building  in  his 
garden,  in  which  he  had  collected  the  largest  private 
library  in  the  Turkish  empire.  It  contained  books 
from  all  over  the  world,  and  there  were  few  among 
them  which  their  owner  could  not  read.  One  day  Dr. 
Grosvenor  was  walking  with  him  through  the  library, 
and  he  was  pointing  out  the  special  treasures  it  con 
tained,  and  speaking  of  them  with  the  enthusiasm 
which  is  characteristic  of  a  book-lover,  when,  taking  a 
volume  from  one  of  the  shelves,  he  said,  "Do  you 
know  there  is  no  book  here  which  I  care  for  more 
than  this."  It  was  a  large  volume,  showing  inside 
and  out  every  sign  of  frequent  use.  Many  lines  in  it 
were  underscored,  and  in  the  margins  were  written 
frequent  comments  in  quaint  Turkish  characters. 
"Some  of  these  pieces,"  he  said,  "I  know  by  heart." 
The  book  was  a  copy  of  Longfellow,  and  his 
were  the  poems  that  soothed  the  busy  Mussulman 


io  LONGFELLOW'S  CENTENARY 

statesman  in  many  a  weary  hour  of  his  anxious  and 
burdened  life. 

But  that  picture  is  not  more  interesting  than  the 
one,  equally  authenticated,  of  a  poor  lone  woman 
dwelling  in  a  hut  that  stood  in  a  bare  tract  of  the 
far  northwestern  frontier.  "She  had  cut  from  an 
illustrated  paper  a  picture  of  a  young  girl  with  Long 
fellow's  poem  Maidenhood  printed  below  it,  and  had 
pasted  it  on  her  wall.  There,  day  by  day,  as  she 
stood  at  her  bread-making  or  her  washing,  she  gazed 
at  the  young  face,  and  pondered  the  words  of  the 
poet,  until  both  face  and  poem  worked  themselves 
into  her  nature.  A  visitor  who  chanced  to  call  at 
her  cabin  one  day,  and  to  whom  she  talked  of  her 
precious  poem,  was  astonished  at  the  truths  she  had 
drawn  from  it,  and  declared  that  he  went  away  with 
new  and  deeper  views  of  the  meaning  and  beauty  of 
life." 

These  two  pictures,  of  the  accomplished  Ottoman 
statesman  in  his  richly-furnished  library,  and  of  the 
humble  frontier  woman  with  her  one  poem  pasted  on 
the  wall,  illustrate  the  range  of  the  appeal  that 
Longfellow  makes  to  people  in  every  condition  of 
life,  and  in  every  land  where  literature  is  known  and 
loved. 

The  explanation  of  this  universal  and  unique 
appeal  is  to  be  found,  partly,  in  the  essential  nature 
of  his  art.  The  truest  art  is  that  which  reflects,  in 
its  motives  and  methods,  the  simplicity  of  Nature, 
and  lays  upon  the  human  spirit  a  spell  not  unlike 
that  which  is  wrought,  in  a  thousand  familiar  ways, 
by  Nature  herself. 


ADDRESS  1 1 

"The  sunshine  is  a  glorious  birth"  not  only  to 
Wordsworth,  but,  consciously  or  unconsciously,  to 
men  the  world  over.  The  dull  monotone  of  the  sea, 
and  the  rippling  song  of  the  brook,  are  soothing 
sounds  to  the  ear,  but  he  who  hears  them  finds  that, 
in  some  mysterious  way,  they  are  forthwith  changed 
to  dreams  and  fancies  in  his  soul.  The  plaintive  or 
cheerful  note  of  a  lone  bird  in  the  still  depths  of  the 
forest,  stirs  in  the  listener  a  half-conscious  sympathy 
for  what  seems  like  a  remote  and  unshared  ecstasy 
of  joy  or  sorrow.  The  little  flower  that  peeps  timidly 
forth  amid  the  withered  and  tangled  debris  of  a  waste 
place,  brings  a  sudden  light  into  the  eye  that  sees  it, 
and  starts  thoughts  that  are,  perhaps,  "too  deep  for 
tears." 

It  is  by  such  means  as  these,  simple,  familiar, 
unobtrusive,  that  nature  often  appeals  to  what  is 
deepest  within  us,  and  lays  a  wondrous  spell  upon 
the  imagination  and  the  heart.  And  the  art  which 
appeals  most  widely  and  strongly  to  men,  shares,  or 
at  least  reflects  this  simplicity  of  Nature.  Such  is 
preeminently  the  character  of  Longfellow's  art.  It 
is  simple,  lucid,  and  human,  both  in  its  expression, 
and  in  the  themes  with  which  it  deals.  It  has  other 
notable  characteristics  also,  like  sincerity,  flexibility, 
delicacy,  and  tact ;  but  in  its  simplicity  probably  lies 
the  special  reason  why  its  appeal  is,  in  some  measure, 
universal,  like  the  appeal  of  Nature. 

Closely  connected  with  this  characteristic  of  his 
art,  and  equally  interesting,  is  the  fact  that  the  poet 
speaks  primarily  and  directly  to  the  human  heart, 


12  LONGFELLOW'S  CENTENARY 

which  is  the  same  everywhere,  —  with  the  same 
hopes,  and  fears,  and  aspirations, — the  same  bur 
dens,  and  griefs,  and  gropings  for  light, — the  same 
loves,  and  longings,  and  regrets. 

For  the  most  part,  —  whether  in  psalm,  or  legend, 
or  history,  or  song,  —  he  wrote  of  the  things  that 
touch  the  hearts  of  men,  and  women,  and  little  chil 
dren  ;  —  and  he  made  them  new  and  surprising  by 
his  art,  — by  beauty  of  thought,  tenderness  of  feeling, 
and  delicacy  of  form. 

"  It  may  be  glorious,"  says  Lowell,  thinking  and 
speaking  of  Robert  Burns, — 

"  It  may  be  glorious  to  write 
Thoughts  that  shall  glad  the  two  or  three 
High  souls,  like  those  far  stars  that  come  in  sight 

Once  in  a  century  :  — 

"  But  better  far  it  is  to  speak 
One  simple  word,  which  now  and  then 
Shall  waken  their  free  nature  in  the  weak 

And  friendless  sons  of  men." 

Now  the  poetry  of  Longfellow,  like  that  of  Burns, 
avails  not  only  to  waken  their  free  nature  in  the  weak 
and  friendless  sons  of  men,  but  also  to  glad  the  two 
or  three  high  souls.  Only  we  must  not  understand, 
by  the  two  or  three  high  souls,  those  who,  from  taste, 
or  caprice,  or  fashion,  are  attracted  chiefly  by  the 
bizarre,  the  passionate,  the  speculative,  or  the  obscure, 
in  verse,  and  find  therein  their  standards  and  their 
ideals.  The  high  souls,  rather,  are  those  who  are 
catholic  enough  in  their  tastes  to  rejoice  equally  in 


ADDRESS  13 

the  ardor  of  the  sun,  and  the  gentleness  of  the  moon  ; 
in  the  roar  of  the  cataract,  and  the  ripple  of  the 
brook  ;  in  the  fragrance  of  the  May  flower,  and  the 
splendor  of  the  June  rose.  They  are  those  who  are 
sincere  enough  to  recognize  not  only  the  wisdom  of 
the  head,  but  the  wisdom  of  the  heart  as  well ;  to 
perceive  the  touch  of  art  in  the  wayside  shrine  as  well 
as  in  the  Parthenon ;  to  discern  and  honor  Truth  as 
surely  in  the  humble  garb  of  a  pilgrim,  as  in  the 
gorgeous  robes  of  a  priest.  These  are  the  veritable 
high  souls  of  earth,  and  to  these  Longfellow  speaks, 
as  he  speaks  to  the  multitudes  of  undistinguished 
men  and  women. 

It  is  easy  to  see  now,  though  it  might  not  have 
been  foreseen,  that  the  wide  and  rapturous  response 
that  followed  the  appearance  of  many  of  his  poems, 
was  likely  to  endanger  their  later  repute.  From  the 
time  of  Aristides,  men  have  been  inclined  to  resent 
a  too  general  repetition  of  an  honorable  title  like 
"  the  Just,"  even  when  rightly  bestowed.  One  or 
two  of  Longfellow's  early  pieces  of  didactic  senti 
ment  were  so  eagerly  appropriated  by  the  public, 
and  have  been  so  persistently  quoted,  and  recited,  and 
sung,  that,  to  many,  they  have  lost  their  first  charm  ; 
like  a  coin  that  by  frequent  handling  has  grown 
smooth,  and  retains  only  faint  traces  of  the  mint- 
mark  which  certified  its  value,  and  the  sovereignty 
by  which  it  was  issued.  It  is  interesting,  therefore, 
to  find  so  competent  and  exacting  a  judge  as  Mr. 
Churton  Collins,  declaring  in  a  recent  review,  that 
"the  Psalm  of  Life  is  a  noble  poem;  and  all  the 
mouthings  of  it  in  Infant  Schools,  and  Christian 


14  LONGFELLOW'S  CENTENARY 

Associations,  and  all  the  strummings  of  middle-class 
pianos,  will  never  make  it  other  than  noble."  It  is 
true  that  the  Psalm  of  Life  does  not  need  this  testi 
mony  to  its  nobility,  but  the  testimony  is,  neverthe 
less,  significant  as  a  sober  and  vigorous  protest 
against  the  captious  and  impatient  criticism  by  which 
the  poem  is  frequently  disparaged. 

Mr.  Collins  makes,  also,  the  interesting  and  sug 
gestive  remark  that  "  such  poetry  as  Longfellow's  is 
no  more  intended  for  critics  than  the  Bible  was 
intended  for  theologians,  or  the  spring  that  gushes 
forth  and  refreshes  the  toil-worn  traveler  was  intended 
to  supply  material  for  analytical  chemistry." 

It  is  not  necessary  to  give  unqualified  assent  to 
this  picturesque  dictum  in  all  its  details.  To  do  that 
might  involve  one  in  serious  differences  with  the  theolo 
gians,  at  least,  and  perhaps  with  the  chemists.  But 
it  may  safely  be  said,  by  way  of  commentary  and 
application,  that  whether  the  Bible  is  intended  for 
theologians  or  not,  it  is  likely  to  survive  their  con 
troversies  about  it,  just  as  the  refreshing  spring  may 
confidently  abide  the  tests  of  the  analytical  chemists. 
And  there  is  as  little  doubt  that  Longfellow  will  con 
tinue  to  be  read,  and  revered,  and  loved,  whatever 
questions  may  be  raised  by  unsympathetic  or  un 
friendly  critics  concerning  the  qualities  or  the  methods 
of  his  art. 

The  complaint  is  sometimes  made,  not  alone  of 
Longfellow,  but  of  other  poets  as  well,  that  the 
sentiment  of  which  their  poetry  is  the  expression,  is 
familiar  and  common,  and  that  being  so  native  to 
the  human  heart,  and  so  homespun  in  its  quality,  the 


ADDRESS  1 5 

verse  in  which  it  is  enshrined  is,  so  far,  of  an  inferior 
order.  The  criticism  is,  of  course,  shallow,  and  not 
the  less  shallow  because  it  often  assumes  a  lofty  tone. 
That  which  is  pronounced  a  defect  in  the  poetry  is, 
in  fact,  what  insures  its  permanent  hold  upon  men. 
The  sentiment  which  is  new,  or  strange,  or  paradox 
ical,  —  sentiment  which  is  peculiarly  proper  to  prose, 
—  may,  in  poetry  also,  stir  a  feeling  of  curiosity  and 
interest ;  but  the  feeling  is  transient.  It  is  like  the 
guest  of  an  hour,  whose  coming,  indeed,  is  welcome, 
but  whose  visit  is  of  brief  significance,  and  is  soon 
forgotten.  But  the  sentiment  which  is  familiar, 
because  it  is  the  spontaneous  flowering  of  our  nature, 
is  perennial  and  abiding  ;  and  is  like  the  friend  whose 
accustomed  place  is  by  the  intimate  hearth-fire,  and 
whose  absence  makes  a  void  that  cannot  be  filled. 

Poetry  which  is  the  product  of  ingenious  conceits, 
and  subtle  speculations,  and  morbid  fancies,  may 
have  a  temporary  vogue,  and  make  a  special  appeal 
to  individuals  ;  but  the  poetry  which  clings  to  the 
memory,  and  comforts,  and  refreshes,  and  purifies 
the  heart,  is  that  which  deals  sincerely  and  nobly 
with  the  primal  feelings  of  love,  and  duty,  and  sor 
row,  and  the  home  affections,  and  the  sweetness  of 
childhood,  and  the  serenity  of  age,  and  the  reverent 
fearlessness  of  death.  The  one  kind  of  poetry  is  the 
curious,  and  often  beautiful,  fabric  wrought  by  the 
human  intellect,  the  other  is  the  human  reflection, 
more  or  less  imperfect,  of  the  divine  wisdom  which 
has  made  us  what  we  are. 

A  human  invention,  like  the  telephone  for  example, 
at  its  first  appearance  startles  and  amazes  us  by  what 


1 6  LONGFELLOW'S  CENTENARY 

seems  like  the  exhibition  of  a  power  hitherto  unre- 
vealed.  In  a  brief  time  it  becomes  merely  the  me 
dium  of  ordinary  business  or  of  friendly  intercourse, 
and  takes  an  unobtrusive  place  among  the  lower 
things  that  minister  to  our  convenience.  It  ceases  to 
be  even  a  marvel  to  us.  But  the  lightning,  that  has 
played  along  the  horizon  or  flashed  from  the  clouds 
for  unnumbered  centuries,  always  the  same,  continues 
to  waken  within  us  emotions  of  wonder  and  awe. 
The  appreciation  of  Longfellow,  like  the  appreciation 
of  all  true  poetry,  demands  of  us  an  attitude  of  sym 
pathy  and  reverence  for  the  things  which,  because 
they  are  not  of  human  origin,  are  ever-repeated,  and 
fundamental,  and  commonplace. 

Longfellow  was  a  poet  of  the  fireside,  but  he  was 
also,  and  scarcely  less,  a  poet  of  the  sea.  In  his 
boyhood,  his  imagination  was  charmed  by  the 
4 *  beauty  and  mystery  of  the  ships,"  in  his  seaport 
home.  In  his  college  days,  he  was  a  frequent  and 
interested  visitor  to  the  neighboring  ship-building 
yard  on  Maquoit  Bay,  and  followed  eagerly  the  sev 
eral  stages  in  the  construction  of  a  ship,  from  the 
laying  of  the  keel  to  the  stepping  of  the  masts.  In 
his  manhood,  he  wrote,  with  keen  delight,  the  beau 
tiful  seaside  idyl,  The  Building  of  the  Skip,  in  which 
the  art  of  the  poet  gave  a  fine  touch  of  sentiment  and 
romance  to  the  age-long  art  of  the  ship-builder ;  and 
closed  the  idyl  with  the  fervid  patriotic  outburst  which 
drew  tears  from  the  patient  eyes  of  our  Great-heart 
Lincoln,  and  from  his  lips  the  exclamation,  "It  is  a 
wonderful  gift  to  be  able  to  stir  men  like  that ! " 

"I  prefer  the  seaside  to  the   country,"    he   once 


ADDRESS  1 7 

remarked;  "the  idea  of  liberty  is  much  stronger 
there."  He  turned  his  eyes  away  from  the  meadows 
and  the  mountains,  and  fastened  his  thoughts  upon 
*'  the  magic  of  the  sea."  As  he  gazed  off  upon 
the  deep,  his  fancy  was  lured  and  captivated  by  its 
mystery  and  never-failing  fascination.  The  islands 
and  forts  of  Casco  Bay,  the  fog-bells  and  beacons,  the 
alternation  of  mist  and  sunshine,  the  subdued  cadence 
and  the  hoarse  cry  of  the  waves,  the  dancing  boats 
of  the  fishermen  and  the  stately  canvas  of  coastwise 
vessels,  —  all  these  things  gave  impulse  and  charm 
to  his  imagination.  And  so  he  wrote  of  The  Beacon, 
of  The  Lighthouse,  of  The  Phantom  Ship,  of  Sea 
weed,  of  The  Wreck  of  the  Hesperus,  of  The  Reef 
of  Normals  Woe,  and  of  many  a  scene  that  brings 
us  a  transient  whiff  of  the  ocean  breath.  Figures 
and  metaphors  drawn  from  the  sea  are  everywhere  in 
his  poetry,  from  the  "forlorn  and  shipwrecked 
brother  sailing  o'er  life's  stormy  main  ",  to  the  beau 
tiful  little  sermon  spoken  by  the  clergyman  to  the  bride 
and  groom  as  they  stand  on  the  happy  deck  of  the 
newly-builded  ship,  —  a  sermon  as  fit  for  us  as  it  was 
for  them  :  — 

"  Like  unto  ships  far  off  at  sea, 

Outward  or  homeward  bound  are  we ; 

Before,  behind,  and  all  around, 

Floats  and  swings  the  horizon's  bound ; 

Seems  at  its  distant  rim  to  rise 

And  climb  the  crystal  wall  of  the  skies, 

And  then  again  to  turn  and  sink, 

As  if  we  could  slide  from  its  outer  brink. 

Ah !  it  is  not  the  sea, 


1 8  LONGFELLOW'S  CENTENARY 

It  is  not  the  sea  that  sinks  and  shelves, 

But  ourselves 

That  rock  and  rise 

With  endless  and  uneasy  motion, 

Now  touching  the  very  skies, 

Now  sinking  into  the  depths  of  ocean. 

Ah !  if  our  souls  but  poise  and  swing, 

Like  the  compass  in  its  brazen  ring, 

Ever  level,  and  ever  true 

To  the  toil  and  the  task  we  have  to  do, 

We  shall  sail  securely,  and  safely  reach 

The  Fortunate  Isles  on  whose  shining  beach 

The  sights  we  see  and  the  sounds  we  hear, 

Will  be  those  of  joy,  and  not  of  fear." 

The  '  divine '  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  as  his  contem 
poraries,  not  without  reason  delighted  to  call  him, 
remarks  in  his  Apologie  for  Poetrie,  that  of  all 
sciences  the  Poet  is  monarch.  "  He  cometh  to  you 
with  words  set  in  delightful  proportion  ;  *  *  and  with 
a  tale,  forsooth,  he  cometh  to  you,  with  a  tale  which 
holdeth  children  from  play,  and  old  men  from  the 
chimney  corner;  and  pretending  nothing  more,  doth 
intend  the  winning  of  the  mind  from  wickedness  to 
virtue." 

Of  that  ideal  of  a  poet  which  is  as  old  as  the  art 
itself,  Longfellow  is  an  admirable  exemplification. 
He  comes  to  us  with  a  tale  which,  by  its  vivid  and 
picturesque  charm  holds  children  from  play,  and  old 
men  from  the  chimney  corner.  He  unites  the  art  of 
a  story-teller  to  the  art  of  a  poet.  The  narrative  may 
be  an  avowed  tale,  like  those  which  were  told  with 
Chaucerian  grace  in  the  Wayside  Inn,  or  it  may  be 


ADDRESS  19 

in  the  form  of  an  idyl,  a  ballad,  or  an  epic ;  but  it  is 
always  well-ordered,  graceful  in  style,  lucid  in  lan 
guage,  and  happy  in  the  adaptation  of  the  metre  to 
the  theme.  There  is  scarcely  any  variety  of  English 
verse  which  he  has  not  employed,  and  an  unerring 
instinct  led  him  to  choose  the  form  that  is  fitted  to 
his  subject.  For  the  tale  of  Evangeline^  an  idyl  of 
wondrous  beauty,  and  tenderness,  and  pathos,  and 
for  The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish^  that  picture  of 
stern  Puritanic  life,  relieved  by  a  delicate  and  engag 
ing  charm  of  humor,  he  made  the  bold  and  deliberate 
choice  of  the  hexameter  form  of  verse.  Forthwith 
the  critics,  or  some  of  them,  began  busily  to  demon 
strate  that  the  metre  was,  of  necessity,  harsh,  halting, 
and  unsuited  to  English  verse ;  that  the  attempt  to 
adapt  a  classical  metre,  however  musical  in  its  origin, 
to  the  peculiarities  of  English  speech,  had  always 
been  a  failure,  and  must  continue  to  be  a  failure. 
They  talked  learnedly  of  the  incompatibility  of 
"  quantity"  and  "  accent."  They  filled  their  pages, 
and  vexed  the  air,  with  their  remarks  about  "  tro 
chees,"  and  "  dactyls, "and  "  anapests,"  and  the  laws 
of  ancient  and  modern  prosody.  So  insistent  were 
they,  and  so  confident  of  the  truth  and  importance  of 
their  contention,  that  one  might  well  have  been  dis 
posed  to  adopt  the  impatient  utterance  of  Burns  to  his 
critics,  — 

"  What's  a'  your  jargon  of  your  schools  ? 
Your  Latin  names  for  horns  and  stools  ? 
If  honest  Nature  made  you  fools 
What  sairs  your  grammars  ?  " 


20  LONGFELLOW  S    CENTENARY 

For,  strange  as  it  might  seem,  while  they  were 
busily  engaged  in  proving  that  the  metre  which 
Longfellow  had  adopted  could  not  be  pleasant  to  the 
ear,  or  inviting  to  the  reader,  the  gentle  idyl,  with  its 
sweetness,  and  sincerity,  and  grace,  was  winning 
its  way  to  all  hearts,  and  charming  all  ears;  so  that 
the  reader  or  hearer  of  it  was  tempted  at  its  conclu 
sion  to  apply  to  the  poem  itself  the  description  of  its 
heroine  :  — 

"  Homeward  serenely  she  walked,  with  God's  benediction 

upon  her; 
When  she  had  passed  it  seemed  like  the  ceasing  of  exquisite 

music." 

Another  experiment  in  metrical  form  was  made  by 
Longfellow  in  the  poem  of  Hiawatha.  It  may  fairly 
be  called  a  kind  of  epic,  for,  while  strikingly  unique 
in  form,  it  is  scarcely  more  unlike  the  classical  type 
of  epic  than  is  the  Faery  Queen  of  Spenser,  or  Ten 
nyson's  Idyls  of  the  King.  It  relates  the  primeval 
traditions,  and  describes  the  daily  life,  of  a  shy, 
mysterious  people,  of  whom  the  little  that  we  know 
invests  them  with  a  strange  romantic  interest.  Under 
the  poet's  spell,  we  sit  by  them  at  the  door  of  the 
lodge,  and  go  with  them  to  hunt  in  the  forest ;  we 
shoot  the  rapids  with  them  in  a  birch  canoe  that  floats 
on  the  river, 

"  Like  a  yellow  leaf  in  Autumn, 
Like  a  yellow  water  lily." 

We  are  charmed  observers  of  their  wooing,  and 
guests  at  their  wedding  feast.  We  seem  to  partake 


ADDRESS  2 1 

in  their  blithe  fellowship  with  bird  and  beast,  and  to 
share  in  their  stoical  suffering  and  grief.  We  listen 
to  their  simple  and  stately  talk,  and  become  familiar 
with  their  superstitions,  and  feel  the  charm  of  their 
childlike  faith.  It  is  a  strange  world  of  primitive 
manners  and  speech,  in  which  the  human  life  is  in 
closest  contact  with  the  life  of  Nature.  The  Indians 
of  the  present  day,  bewildered  by  the  conditions  and 
contaminated  by  the  vices  of  modern  civilization,  do 
not  seem  inviting  subjects  for  poetic  treatment,  and 
it  was  by  a  supreme  effort  of  sympathetic  imagination 
that  Longfellow  was  able  to  revivify  their  primitive 
state,  and  to  shed  upon  it  an  ideal  glow  in  which  it 
will  henceforth  exist.  The  poem  which  does  this  has 
no  prototype,  and  will  have  no  successor.  The  metre 
in  which  it  is  written  is  a  most  skilful  adaptation  of 
form  to  subject  and  purpose.  It  was  borrowed  from 
an  ancient  Finnish  poem,  and  Longfellow's  unfailing 
artistic  sense  perceived  the  fitness  of  it  for  his  purpose. 
He  had  to  tell  of  the  doings  of  a  rude  folk,  living  in 
the  forests,  sharing  some  of  the  traits,  as  they  shared 
the  companionship  of  the  wild  animal  life  about  them, 
having  a  limited  stock  of  words  and  ideas,  and  with 
the  superstitions  natural  to  their  savage  state.  What 
could  be  better  suited  to  this  difficult  purpose  than 
the  short,  rapid,  trochaic  lines,  full  of  parallelisms 
and  repetitions,  the  model  of  which  he  found  in  the 
old  Finnish 'poem,  and  adopted  with  an  added  grace 
of  his  own? 

"  Ye  who  love  a  nation's  legends, 
Love  the  ballads  of  a  people, 


22  LONGFELLOW'S   CENTENARY 

That  like  voices  from  afar  off 

Call  to  us  to  pause  and  listen  ;  — 

Ye  whose  hearts  are  fresh  and  simple, 

Who  have  faith  in  God  and  nature, 

Who  believe  that  in  all  ages 

Every  human  heart  is  human, 

That  in  even  savage  bosoms 

There  are  longings,  yearnings,  strivings, 

For  the  good  they  comprehend  not, 

That  the  feeble  hands  and  helpless, 

Groping  blindly  in  the  darkness, 

Touch  God's  right  hand  in  the  darkness, 

And  are  lifted  up  and  strengthened  ;  — 

Listen  to  this  simple  story, 

To  this  song  of  Hiawatha." 

So  winning  and  graceful  an  invitation  could  scarcely 
be  resisted ;  and  the  people  did  listen,  and  were 
glad.  And  they  identified  the  poet  with  the  sweet 
Indian  singer,  Chibiabos  ;  and  when  Longfellow  was 
borne  to  his  burial  his  own  words  were  the  fitting 
requiem  :  — 

11  He  is  dead,  the  sweet  musician ! 
He  is  gone  from  us  forever ! 
He  has  moved  a  little  nearer 
To  the  Master  of  all  music, 
To  the  Master  of  all  singing !  " 

It  is  a  great  change  to  pass  from  the  poem  of 
Hiawatha,  which  remains  absolutely  unique  in  the 
world  of  Art,  to  a  form  of  verse  so  familiar  as  the 
Sonnet,  which  has  been  cultivated  by  all  the  great 
English  poets  since  Wyatt  and  Surrey  wrote  in  the 


ADDRESS  23 

middle  of  the  sixteenth  century.  The  passage,  how 
ever,  from  the  one  form  of  verse  to  the  other  was  not 
difficult  to  the  flexible  genius  of  Longfellow.  Of  his 
sonnets  too  much  can  scarcely  be  said  in  praise. 
By  virtue  of  them  if  we  should  take  no  account  of  his 
other  work,  he  belongs  among  the  most  esteemed  of 
modern  poets.  The  sonnet  is  a  most  exacting  form 
of  verse.  To  achieve  excellence  in  it  demands  a 
rich  poetic  imagination,  transparent  clearness,  self 
restraint,  a  delicate  ear  for  musical  cadence,  mastery 
of  the  resources  of  rhyme,  and  a  sure  vision  of  the 
single  thought  to  be  conveyed.  It  is  almost  a 
supreme  test  of  imaginative  and  artistic  genius. 
Many  poets  who  have  written  well  in  other  forms  of 
verse  have  failed  in  this.  In  the  hands  of  a  master 
it  has  compelling  beauty  and  power ;  but  it  is  often 
dull  and  uninviting.  Longfellow  was  preeminently 
an  artist  in  the  temper  and  structure  of  his  verse,  and 
his  sonnets  are  among  the  noblest  that  were  produced 
in  the  last  century.  If  one  were  to  begin  to  name 
them  he  could  not  fail  to  make  a  catalogue  too  long 
to  be  read,  certainly  at  this  time. 

Some  of  them  are  revelations  of  his  insight,  and 
speak  his  reverent  appreciation  of  the  great  masters 
of  poetry,  Dante,  Chaucer,  Shakespeare,  and  Milton. 
Some  of  them  are  brimmed  with  tenderness  and  love 
for  the  memory  of  dear  and  vanished  friends.  Some 
of  them  throw  the  brilliant  light  of  his  fancy,  or  the 
steady  radiance  of  his  faith,  on  the  joys  of  life  and 
the  mystery  of  death.  One  of  them  is  of  special 
interest  and  charm  to  us,  because  it  is  a  loving  tribute 
to  a  revered  teacher  of  his  college  days,  Parker 
Cleaveland. 


24  LONGFELLOW'S   CENTENARY 

Not  a  few  of  these  sonnets  it  would  be  a  pleasure 
to  read  to  this  audience,  but  I  content  myself  with 
one,  which  in  perfection  of  form  and  nobility  of  senti 
ment  is  unsurpassed.  It  was  written  in  his  seventieth 
year,  when  rjis  thoughts  turned,  not  unnaturally,  to 
the  solemn  event  which  he  began  to  anticipate,  but 
did  not  fear : 

"  As  one  who  long  hath  fled  with  panting  breath 

Before  his  foe,  bleeding  and  near  to  fall, 

I  turn  and  set  my  back  against  the  wall, 
And  look  thee  in  the  face,  triumphant  Death. 
I  call  for  aid,  and  no  one  answereth  ; 

I  am  alone  with  thee,  who  conquerest  all ; 

Yet  me  thy  threatening  form  doth  not  appall, 
For  thou  art  but  a  phantom  and  a  wraith. 
Wounded  and  weak,  sword  broken  at  the  hilt, 

With  armor  shattered,  and  without  a  shield, 
I  stand  unmoved ;  do  with  me  what  thou  wilt ; 

I  can  resist  no  more,  but  will  not  yield. 
This  is  no  tournament  where  cowards  tilt ; 

The  vanquished  here  is  victor  of  the  field." 

A  strange  pathetic  thing  in  the  closing  years  of 
Emerson's  life  was  the  failure  of  his  memory  to  recall 
the  words  which  he  wanted.  He  had  been,  through 
his  life,  a  master  of  words.  They  seemed  to  wait 
upon  him, — rich,  pregnant,  vivid  words, — ready  to 
his  call,  like  alert  and  obsequious  servants,  eager  and 
able,  like  Prospero's  Ariel, 

"  To  tread  the  ooze  of  the  salt  deep, 
To  run  upon  the  sharp  wind  of  the  north, 
To  do  him  business  in  the  veins  o'  the  earth 
When  it  is  baked  with  frost." 


ADDRESS  25 

No  homely  lesson,  no  poetic  imagining,  no  etherial 
vision,  but  it  came  from  him  in  words  that  carried 
their  humble  or  their  mystic  message  deftly  and  clearly 
into  the  minds  of  men.  But  the  power  failed  him. 
His  richly-liveried  retinue  of  slaves  no  longer 
responded  to  his  need.  He  groped  pitifully,  in  vain, 
for  words  and  names  which  had  always  seemed  to 
anticipate  his  summons. 

In  those  days  of  pathetic  failure,  a  short  time  before 
his  own  death,  he  was  present  at  the  funeral  service 
of  his  friend  Longfellow.  During  the  service  he  rose, 
and  going  to  the  side  of  the  coffin,  looked  intently 
upon  the  face  of  the  dead  poet.  A  few  moments 
later  he  rose  again,  and  looked  once  more  upon  the 
familiar  features.  Then  he  said  to  a  friend  near  him, 
"That  gentleman  was  a  sweet,  beautiful  soul,  but  I 
have  entirely  forgotten  his  name." 

It  was  an  interesting  and  instructive  incident.  The 
name  of  his  cherished  friend  might  be  lost  in  the  mist 
that  had  gathered  about  his  memory,  but  nothing 
could  blot  from  his  consciousness  the  significant  fact 
that  the  still  face  into  which  he  looked  was  the  face 
of  a  serene  and  beautiful  spirit. 

It  is  not  permitted  us  to  look  upon  the  living  or  the 
dead  features  of  the  poet,  except  as  they  are  chiseled 
or  drawn  for  us  in  bust  or  portrait ;  but  we  may  look 
again  and  again,  as  often  as  we  will  into  the  poems 
which  bear  the  impress  of  his  spirit,  and  if  words  fail 
us  to  describe  the  secret  of  their  charm,  we  shall  still 
feel,  with  Emerson,  that  he  who  wrote  them  was  a 
*'  sweet,  beautiful  soul." 


POEM 

BY 

REV.  SAMUEL  VALENTINE  COLE,  D.D., 
CLASS  OF  1874 


A  POET'S  CENTENARY 


WE  were  a  busy  people ;  axes  rang, 
And  anvils  ;  when  amid  the  day's  turmoil 
A  melody  crept ;  a  master  came,  and  sang, 

And  charmed  the  workers,  sweetening  all  the  toil 
As  Orpheus  did,  who  once,  with  flute  to  lip, 
Helped  mightily  at  the  launching  of  the  ship. 

And  in  and  out  among  us  many  a  day 

He  went,  this  singer,  with  his  happy  strain  ; 

Greeted  the  little  children  at  their  play ; 
Was  present  at  the  hanging  of  the  crane ; 

Blessed  maidenhood  and  manhood  ;  blessed  the  birds  ;  — 

His  life  beat  like  the  sunshine  through  his  words. 

At  last  he  said  upon  occasion  high, 

The  light  of  seventy  summers  in  his  face, 

"  O,  Caesar,  we  who  are  about  to  die 

Salute  you,"  and  he  said  it  from  this  place, 

With  aged  comrades  round  him  who  should  all 

So  soon  restore  life's  armor  to  the  wall. 

Those  men  have  passed  into  the  Silent  Land, 
Their  earthly  battles  ended ;  many  a  change 

Has  crept  on  us  beneath  time's  moulding  hand, 
And  on  these  scenes  with  faces  new  and  strange ; 

But  not  on  him  :  the  magic  of  his  art 

Still  penetrates  the  citadel  of  the  heart ! 


3O  POEM 

And  where  he  once  has  entered  to  delight 

And  cheer  and  strengthen,  linger  he  must  and  will ; 

Oft  mingling  with  the  voices  of  the  night 
Some  fragment  of  his  song  to  haunt. us  still, 

Or  lure  to  far-off  realms,  and  unawares 

Scatter  in  flight  an  Arab  host  of  cares. 

A  hundred  years  —  how  old  he  would  have  been ! 

And  yet  how  young ;  for,  as  we  turn  his  page, 
We  mark  the  throbbings  of  a  life  within 

Old  as  the  world  and  new  to  every  age. 
Beauty  and  love  and  sorrow  —  from  such  themes 
Uprose  the  golden  fabric  of  his  dreams. 


II 


"  God  sent  his  singers  upon  earth,"  he  said  ; 

What  were  the  earth  without  them  ?  what  were  life 
We  call  so  glorious  but  games  and  bread, 

Sordid  existence  or  ignoble  strife, 
Were  there  no  voices  crying  to  the  soul, 
Nor  any  vision  of  life's  path  and  goal  ? 

The  truth  we  need  and  wait  for  may  at  times 
Break  suddenly  on  us  like  a  cannon's  roar, 

But  oftener  comes  in  faintest  elfin  chimes 

Blown  o'er  the  border  line  from  some  dim  shore, 

Or,  yet,  as  blind  and  helpless  as  we  are, 

It  comes  in  perfect  stillness  like  a  star. 

Ay,  even  invisible  as  the  air  that  rolls, 

Stand  great  unproven  truths  which,  as  we  must, 

We  build  our  lives  upon,  and  stake  our  souls, 

Outweighing  knowledge  with  our  hope  and  trust,  — 


POEM  3 i 

Truths  which  keen  Science,  labor  as  she  may, 
Can  never  explain  —  and  never  explain  away ! 

Science  may  guide  o'er  many  a  hill  and  plain, 
Revealing  how  the  pathways  meet  and  part ; 

But  for  life's  pathless  and  uncharted  main, 
Whereon  our  surest  pilot  is  the  heart, 

We  need  their  vision  unto  whom  belong 

The  mystery  and  the  mastery  of  song ! 

"  Listen  !  behold  !  believe  !  "  are  tones  that  fill 

The  poets'  signs  and  symbols  manifold,  — 
Those  fables  of  the  ever-singing  Hill, 

Isles  of  the  Blest,  cities  with  streets  of  gold, 
Enchanted  castles,  youth-restoring  streams, 
And  all  the  El  Doradoes  of  our  dreams ! 

For  song,  indeed,  is  truth  full-winged  with  power ; 

A  faithful  voice  that  calls  us  from  afar; 
An  impulse  from  some  land  where  every  hour 

God's  truth  reigns  sovereign  ;  some  hope-bringing  star  ; 
Some  sword  that  stirs  the  spirit,  as  were  stirred 
The  Prophets  and  Apostles  of  the  Word ! 

The  poets  go  before  us  ;  they  discern, 

Across  these  spaces  of  life's  gloom  and  glow, 

The  great  ideals  that  ever  live  and  burn ; 

They  break  all  pathways  without  fear,  and,  lo, 

They  travel  onward,  keeping  still  in  sight 

Some  pillar  of  cloud  by  day,  of  fire  by  night. 

The  blessed  poets  save  us  —  not  the  kings, 
And  not  the  warriors;  no  great  human  wrongs 

Have  they  e'er  stood  for ;  no  great  rightful  things 
But  they  have  loved  and  cherished ;  by  their  songs 


32  POEM 

We  march  and  prosper ;  by  their  torches'  rays 
The  world  moves  forward  into  nobler  ways. 


And  in  their  hands  for  gracious  use  they  bear 

The  crowning  gift  of  immortality ; 
The  songless  cities  perish ;  in  thin  air 

Empires  dissolve  ;  old  customs  cease  to  be  ; 
But  aught  that  is,  though  flung  by  others  by, 
The  poets  touch  it  and  it  cannot  die ! 

Still  Homer's  heroes  live  and  talk  and  fight ; 

The  old  men  chirp  of  Helen  ;  beacons  flare 
From  Ilium  on  to  Argos  in  the  night ; 

Penelope  does  not  of  her  lord  despair, 
But  ravels  still  the  day's  work  with  her  hands ; 
And  still  Nausicaa  by  the  pillar  stands. 

How  marvelous  time's  world-structure  named  of  Song, 
With  masonry  of  dream-stuff,  and  with  halls 

Of  golden  music  !  yet  secure  and  strong  ; 
Whereon  decay's  dark  shadow  never  falls ; 

A  miracle  of  the  masters  from  all  lands 

And  from  all  times  —  this  house  not  made  with  hands  ! 


Ill 


Ah  !  silently  there  sweeps  before  my  eyes 
A  vision  of  three  poets  dear  to  all 

Who  feel  the  touch  of  beauty,  and  who  prize 
The  nobler  voices  that  around  us  fall ; 

Each  from  a  different  land,  but  all  the  three 

Facing  the  morning  of  a  world  to  be. 


POEM  33 

Lo,  Roman  Virgil !  at  whose  wizard  name 

Things  lost  their  power  to  change  and  pass  away ; 

Troy  burns  and  does  not  vanish  in  the  flame ; 
A  great  queen  greets  the  exiles  ;  still  to-day 

Men  hear,  as  by  the  Tiber's  side  they  stroll, 

The  funeral  hymn  of  young  Marcellus  roll. 

Lo,  also,  England's  Virgil !  Arthur  reigns 

Forever  in  the  halls  of  Camelot ; 
Fair  women  sacrifice  for  noble  gains 

Who  never  will  grow  old  or  be  forgot ; 
And  those  three  Queens  that  helped  are  helping  still 
The  men  who  help  to  banish  human  ill. 

And,  pray,  why  lingers  Hiawatha  so  ? 

Why  must  Priscilla  and  John  Alden  stand 
Telling  the  old,  old  tale  and  never  go  ? 

Wherefore  this  many  a  year  throughout  the  land 
Keeps  sad  Evangeline  her  unwearied  quest  ? 
The  answer  is  —  our  Virgil  of  the  West  1 

Three  Laureates  of  three  great  peoples  !     Each, 

In  golden  phrase  and  music-laden  words, 
Moulded  to  sweetest  use  his  country's  speech ; 

Loved  simple  things,  touched  ever  the  common  chords, 
Winning  the  people's  heart,  and  lived  to  hear 
The  praises  of  the  world  sound  in  his  ear. 

The  realm  of  books  each  ever  loved  to  roam, 

Finding  new  glories  for  the  song  he  wove ; 
Sang  childhood,  the  affections  of  the  home, 

And  the  dear  constancy  of  woman's  love ; 
Found  tears  in  human  things,  and  evermore 
Stretched  yearning  hands  out  toward  the  farther  shore. 


34  POEM 

They  sang  that  men  should  faint  not,  but  endure, 
Follow  the  gleam-,  and  wear  the  fadeless  flower 

Of  hope  forever ;  that  the  goal  is  sure 

For  those  who  strive  and  trust  the  Heavenly  Power. 

They  lived  pure  lives  and  gentle,  nor  through  all 

Uttered  a  word  they  ever  need  recall. 

So  like  in  their  unlikeness,  that  I  dare 

(As  else  I  dare  not)  name  them  side  by  side ; 

Swayed  by  one  mood  and  spirit ;  as  they  fare, 
The  spaces  close  between  them,  else  so  wide  ; 

While  their  immortal  echoes  strike  across 

All  tumults  hitherward,  nor  suffer  loss. 

IV 

Bowdoin,  dear  Mother,  to  thy  listening  ear 
His  step  falls  on  these  pathways  as  of  yore ; 

Again  the  "boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will  "  here, 

And  his  the  "  long,  long  thoughts  "  of  youth  once  more ; 

For  thine  he  was  when  first  the  vision  came 

To  him  of  the  alluring  face  of  fame. 

He  caught  the  pathos  from  thy  murmuring  pines, 
The  melody  from  thy  river,  beauty  and  light 

From  the  fair  sky  above  thee  where  the  signs, 
Thick  with  white  worlds,  roll  solemnly  by  night ; 

Thy  son,  and  master  in  the  art  divine, 

All  this  he  wrought  into  his  lustrous  line. 

But  chiefly  —  for  he  knew  what  springs  had  fed 

His  youthful  spirit  in  its  purpose  high  — 
Did  he  remember  —  on  the  day  he  said 

That  he  was  old  and  was  about  to  die  — 
With  gracious  words  of  tenderness  and  truth, 
The  faces  of  the  teachers  of  his  youth. 


POEM  35 

Thrice  happy  are  such  teachers,  with  the  dower 
Of  knowledge  and  of  counsel  in  their  hand ! 

They  sit  forever  at  the  springs  of  power, 
And  from  these  quiet  places  of  the  land, 

No  trumpet  blowing  and  no  flag  unfurled, 

They  shape  the  forces  that  will  shape  the  world. 

Ah  !  as  once  more  we  walk  these  shades  among, 

What  visions  from  the  bygone  years  arise  ! 
The  faces,  O,  the  faces,  how  they  throng, 

And  pass,  and  come  again,  with  friendly  eyes, 
And  fill  for  each  of  us,  with  life  more  vast, 
That  other  present  which  we  call  the  past ! 

And  he  is  of  them !     Lo,  the  hearts  that  brim 
With  hope  and  courage,  and  do  not  grow  old, 

Have  somewhere,  somehow,  learned  to  love  like  him 
The  nobler  things  that  are  not  bought  and  sold, 

Remembering  the  light  that  through  life's  bars 

Breaks  from  beyond  the  sunset  and  the  stars ! 


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209392 
Bowdoin  College. 


Address  &  poem.*. 
H«W«   Longfellow. 


.  26, '15       Rotte. 

JUL  9 
iViAY  24 


\v 


209392 


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